@melancholycali

3 weeks ago

Her screams were real—weren’t they? The first time we had heard them on set: everyone froze, heads turning to pinpoint the horrific sound. My blood had ran cold.

It was too authentic, too full of heart. Where? Where, we had asked, had she found such terror from?

The strangest part about it was that she had been smiling hours prior. Then, she would disappear minutes beforehand—slinking off to her dressing room and pushing me, her stylist, away.

“It’s to prep!” she’d say, with an ever-present, dimpled smile on her face. She would wave dismissively at any further inquiry. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry!”

Now, her words echo in my mind. I’ll be fine,_ she had claimed. But she didn’t sound fine; she sounded anything but. Tears streaked down her face, mascara bleeding down her cheeks. She was breathless—gasping, as though some unforeseen force had taken something grave from her. She was contorted in a peculiar illusion of grief.

My heart ached, but there was nothing I could do. It was all an act, after all. …Wasn’t it?

The director turned and whispered amongst other staff members. Their eyebrows were furrowed, faces grim. Their voices were strained, as though they were still trying to process what they had seen. The message was clear: They would have to mute it before the scene was released to the public.

Oh, I realized with a sinking feeling. She wouldn’t be happy about it, but they had a reason for doing so.

And I? I didn’t blame them.

EDIT: I fixed a few things up. :)

850 |